"Honestly, Mom?"

Another year, another Mother's Day. How cold of me to say that! But
wait, hear me out first.

I was talking with someone whom I respect greatly for her intelligence
and insight the other day, and she brought up Mother's Day. Basically
what she said, for I would not want to include others in my haphazard
posting of detailed private information, was that she didn't celebrate
Mother's Day because every day is Mother's Day.

Kind of makes you feel stupid for going out and buying all those
flowers and chocolate and whatnot, doesn't it?

What this woman said got me thinking, as usual. I wanted to write
something about my mom, but I'm no good at the sappy stuff that
makes the sweetest of sweetteeth quiver in excitement. I didn't
want to write some stupid essay about how I didn't send my mom
anything except myself home as a present. That just isn't Ben. I
think. No angst, no grand sweeping statements about the plight of
man, no vulgarities.

So I chose to write about why I didn't send my mom very much. I
suppose I take my mom for granted, as most do. It isn't a bad
thing, you know -- it means that you're so important and
intertwined into someone's life that you're a part of them that
they're used to having there. Remove yourself and they feel
incomplete. They don't operate as well and they aren't anywhere
near as comfortable or happy without you.

My mom does so much for me. She always has. We don't have the
type of relationship where we need to say something to each
other every day -- my whole family is used to a sort of
silent understanding. I lived away from home for my freshman
year this year and we hardly ever communicated. It just isn't
necessary. And this form of communication has worked.

I was brought up extremely well. I was allowed the opportunities
to explore what I wanted to, so I never ran into the problem
of not being able to learn something because my parents
couldn't or wouldn't provide for me. Some may call this being
spoiled, but I disagree -- it's more like the American Dream,
earning enough money to provide a better life for one's
children (so kiss my ass, you anti-Plano hypocrites). It's
like actually being a growing organism -- the more experience
you have, the better you will be at surviving and then enjoying
life.

My parents raised me, in general, how every child should be
raised. My parents were always there and they always
instructed me as to what my choices were. They were good
and kind to me. They were strict in a subtle sort of way,
using guilt as punishment for abusing their generosity.

As I got older, their parenting took root in me and I grew
up to be someone who is open-minded and who chooses the
most beneficial and efficient option. I cherish books.
I would not give up my education for anything. I am
eager to live life. I am.

I know I ranted about this before, but I'm taking a
slightly different slant this time.

I do not have the audacity to say it was me who caused
any of this. The credit goes to my parents, mainly. I
am a strong believer in proper parenting. I believe that
how a child is raised is how he or she will end up as an
adult. If a parent beats a child, the child will be
abusive and impulsive later on. If a parent supports a
child, the child will be more responsive as an adult.
To me, there is nothing more important for a person's
development than the state of living at home.

You may not agree, but I think if you go out into the
world and meet people, particularly those my age, you
will find that the more stable and loving ones are
those who have married parents or who have safe, stable
homes. The ones who are screwed up have screwed up
parents.

Getting back to my mom, it is because of her that I am
what I am today. She gave to me so that I would be
secure as an adult. She cared, therefore I will care.
What she has done has also made me recognize that what
I seek out of a companion is someone who has a stable
family herself. When I find her, if I haven't already,
I will be exceedingly happy.

So there you have it. I don't do all that much for
my mom on Mother's Day. We went out to dinner and I
designed a card using Photoshop (which will become
another part of my body soon) for her, but it was
nothing spectacular. None of the material stuff
really matters, although it's nice when someone
you care about does it for you. It's the feeling
behind everything that counts. And here's the
feeling behind what I'm writing:

Thank you, Mom, on this Mother's Day of 1997, for
raising me well. There is no gift greater than what
you gave me.